Once an Enemy
by The Jade Lady
Summary: Remalna is faced with yet another war, and as a battle ravages through the capital, Elestra must flee for her life, only to meet another who for the last two years has been trying to do the same...
1. The Storm

Once an Enemy

Chapter One: Prologue

The thunder rolled in the distance striving to catch up to its lightning counterpart. It was an odd but beautiful scene, one I knew Aunt Elenet would crave to paint.

At the border of the earth and the heavens you could see the setting sun, almost blinding with its golden rays. Yet, if you looked carefully you could catch a glimpse of the patch of blue sky around it. Surrounding this almost unfitting light were the tempestuous dark grey clouds that yearned to engulf the entirety of the sky, but were dissuaded for they were blinded themselves. And true to the setting of dusk, at the margin between the storm clouds and the brilliant sun were vivid hues of purple, rose, orange, and gold that stained the bordering clouds.

It was a regal sky that did not befit the war-torn lands of Remalna.

Father did the best he could to drive back the Norsundrians, the efforts locking the two armies in a cruel stalemate. Even Mother rode sometimes, so sick with worry that she simply couldn't sit still.

It had been the worst night ever, that night they had argued. My sister sobbed silently, balled up on the bed as Alerec paced nervously around the room. I listened hunched at the door joining our rooms to our parent's.

We had never heard them fight.

We had heard stories from Aunt Nee and Uncle Bran of their rather one-sided "debates" (to be nicely put) before their marriage, but we had also heard to they had promised never to argue like that again.

It only meant that the war was taking a toll on not only the kingdom but even our close-knitted families.

All three of us flinched when we heard father raise his voice.

He never raised his voice.

Oria started to cry in real earnest. I didn't blame her; my throat was painfully constricted, and it hurt too. At once Alerec rushed to her and attempted to quiet her down or at least muffle her wails.

It was then that everything else went silent, leaving Oria's howling the only eerie sound. I heard footsteps on the other side approach the door, and I promptly skittered away. Mama hurried in first, followed closely by Papa, who gently closed the door behind him.

Sitting down beside Oria, Mama pulled her into a warm embrace, rocking her while slowly rubbing her back. Papa joined us on the bed and quietly beckoned Alerec and I to scoot beside him.

He put a comforting arm around our shoulders. In his own subtle way he was embracing us as well. Yet, his gesture also gave us strength and the will not to cry, but to stay resilient.

There is war, his eyes told us, but nothing will ever come between us five to break us apart.


	2. Wash Away the Filth

Chapter Two

In the distance, Flauvic could clearly see the palace glowing in all its glory a brilliant orange and pink. It was truly a breath-taking sight to behold.

But as usual, his hate for the place ruined the picture.

Startled from his thoughts by a sharp roll of thunder, the Merinder found himself plummeting a good nine, ten feet. Landing painfully in a shrub of pine needles, Flauvic cursed as he looked up at the handsome bluewood tree.

"Damn traitor."

He pulled himself out of the needle bed, his grace and beauty clashing foully with his various cuts and bruises and his trademark snarl of disgust.

Plucking green needles from places even he didn't know he had, the fugitive decided to find water to wash his cuts. Five minutes from the treacherous tree a small stream flowed merrily through some wild flowers and disappeared under a mossy beaver dam. Finding a nice patch of soft moss, he plopped down ungracefully and stuck his bare feet into the water. He sighed. That felt good.

How could it not? What with blistered, burned, scraped, bruised, dirty feet—well, one could only imagine the pain and discomfort.

Taking a couple of second to let his poor behind heal, Flauvic proceeded to gingerly scrape away the grime and dried blood from his arms and hands. That done, he splashed the cool water on his face and scrubbed until its reflection was pink. He scowled at the stubble that had started to grow, a bothersome reminder of his current situation. It did not help his morale when he found his beautiful hair—his most prized possession—tangled and stringy with sweaty and mud.

"You poor thing," he consoled himself, gazing at his reflection. Flauvic stirred the still stream water that had gathered in a pool beside the dam. His reflection whirled into blurriness. He noticed the smoothness of the water itself and its pleasing temperature.

"Perhaps a dip?"

Late summer was a horrible time of the year in Remalna City, he concluded. He felt sticky and hot and his ragged cloths were like a second skin. Thus, the idea of a cool refreshing bath overrode his anxiety of being seen.

Besides, the ferns and wild flowers that edged the pond and the stream were a couple of feet tall—enough to hide him from view.

But first, the fact that he would, eventually, have to pull on those dirty cloths again wasn't appealing.

'What would be the point of the bath,' he thought.

So, cautiously, he conjured a small fire, and with the help of some more magic, he assembled a rickety stand of wood above the fire where he could hang his cloths. Parting the tall, stream-side plants Flauvic retook his seat on the soft moss. Glancing nervously around, he stripped himself of everything except his undergarments and a knife. Slowly he entered the water and submerged himself, pulling his laundry with him. He sighed happily as he returned to the surface. Searching around the banks, Flauvic found the common soap plant growing a few feet away. With his knife he cut away a couple of stems and flowers, chopped them up on a flat rock. Usually the plant was to be boiled and strained, but he didn't have any of those instruments or the patience to do so. Instead, he smashed and ground the chopped plant into a paste with another rock. As he rinsed the clothing first, he was appalled at the clouds of dirt that billowed from them in the water.

Then he searched for a large rock where he could smack, soap, and scrub the cloth. He spotted such a rock near the spring and was happy to note that it had smooth bumps so that it was ideal of scrubbing but would not tear the cloth. Scooping up his handmade soap and garb, he swam over and began to rigorously clean.

He was, of course, slightly put out that he had to stoop so low as to perform a servant's chores. Yet, he could help but pat himself on the back at his ingenuity and flexibility. It wasn't just any day you found a man so skilled that he could wash himself and his cloths with only the help of the wilderness.

Although his arms ached slightly, he was also pleased that his physique had only improved from all this hell he was going through. Men often came in two breed, he observed. Those that were unimaginably strong and physically fit but lacked brains and those that were dangerously smart but lacked the brawns to swat a fly.

Hopeless fools, he thought. The fact that he was magically fit as well did wonders to his ego.

There was, though, a small setback, or rather a tall one. No matter his brains, brawns, or magic, for the past twenty he had found himself as tree.

A cursed tree!

And at times, he had to commend the hill-folk in their choice of punishments. The experience was definitely humbling. Not that he did _not_ enjoy being a tree. It was boring sometimes, but extremely relaxing. It truly was a curious feeling to feel the sun warm his veins—to be able to sense the slight changes in weather and the overall vibe in the atmosphere. He could sense the tension or the happiness all in a pleasant silence.

His mind wandered to the voices he had begun to decipher. The ringing, annoying squeal of Tamara and that loathsome Savona's daughter—what was her name, again? Elestra had told him once her name...'With quite a bit of venom, too,' he recalled with amusement.

Speaking of the princess, he still wondered why he had stayed with her for so long when the border had been right there. Was it because she amused him? Yes, he would've been obstinate if he hadn't at least admitted that.

Yet, for some reason it seemed that he had lingered because of something deeper. When it came to escape or amusement he was sure escape had a much greater priority.

So, then what was his excuse, he berated himself for an answer.

Had he wanted to keep her safe? Now that was truly laughable. Flauvic Merinder risk his own skin to save another?

Ya, as soooon as he married Elestra.

For some reason the thought, meant to act upon sarcasm, made his skin tingle.

"All this labor's getting to me," he mumbled.

Smacking his shirt (the last of his laundry, thank god) fervently to extinguish anymore thoughts of the princess, he deftly plunged the garment into the water, twisted it and rung it of excess liquid.

Parting the reeds, Flauvic hung the last of wash on the makeshift drying rack and proceed to clean himself with the remaining soap. Submerging himself all way into the pond and then sitting up, he successfully rinsed away the suds and filth. He took a peek at himself in the glassy surface of the water.

'Ah, much better.'

Although his hair remained somewhat stringy and unkempt, he didn't seem to mind much. Along with the stubble, the hairdo gave him more of a rugged look, a refreshing variation—albeit a little one—from his usual feminine look.

Flauvic floated over to the stream and settled comfortably on a bed of underwater moss. The gentle current that blanketed him massaged his soar body and further cleaned his cuts and scrapes. He couldn't bring himself to get up; so he remained in reclining in the curling waves of the stream—he couldn't nor cared to remember when he had finally drifted off to a peaceful sleep.


	3. Conscience Dreams

Ok, I know I'm really bad at updating, but I've been having a combination of homework, tests, work, and writer's block (not that I'm a great writer anyway) so, forgive me for not being able to update everyday, though I would love to, and the updates may not necessarily be long, I'll try to work on that...

**Conscience Dreams**

The sun—it flowed through his veins and the rays crawled their way towards the heart and mind, searching for the soul—scouring through dark memories and devilish doubts, finding shadows that only grew. These hollows could not be filled by sunlight alone, but by something that fuels the soul.

But there was no soul, none to be found. A complete waste—the search, the body, him. Soulless bodies deserved one thing; such waste should only be decomposed. The light, now blinding, flooded through his ears and eyes, so that all he could hear and see was brilliance. And this vaporous, liquid gold spilled into his mouth, tasting sweet, and ran down his nostrils, blocking the polluted air. Suffocated by the sun, he drowned in the light and welcomed it—welcomed death.

Two gold coins flashed, the clear water softening the metal chips.

Flauvic scrambled up from his position on the underwater moss, and coughed violently, hacking up the stream water that nearly drowned him. Cursing colorfully, he winced at the soreness of his throat. The surrounding temperature had dropped to a chill as the night arrived and a full moon chased away the sun. Now, the stream's coolness bit his numb body.

Slowly, Flauvic got up and stretched out his cramped limps. He tried to shake the pins and needles from his legs in vain. The moon made his wet skin look like a grey plaster peasants used to cover their walls.

An icy gust of wind sent involuntary shudders through his body, and Flauvic hurried over to the 'fire' that was more smoke and wood than a spark. The miniscule wind that he created by huddling around it, however, promptly blew it out.

Grumbling, he relit the fire despite being drained of energy by the cold.

Or perhaps that was why his control had slipped, and he had accidentally singed his fingertips with his own fire.

He cursed the world to Hell.

Yet, how could you curse Hell to Hell?

Sighing heavily, Flauvic once more settled around the fire while reaching for his cloths. Seeing that they were crisp and dry, he pulled them down from the rack...

Thwack!

And the rickety contraption collapsed onto the fire, sending clouds of ashes and embers billowing into the once pristine air.

"AAAAHH DAM—" Flauvic coughed violently, having sucked in the ashes. The poor man raced to the stream and hastily splashed water into his eyes. His hands were not in much better condition.

Covered in soot, he was left with only one choice. Feet first, the cinder-man leaped into the deepest center of the pond, the freezing water pinching his body cruelly.

As before, however, he did not continue in a languorous swim but clambered out as quickly as he could.

The mess his fire had created was certainly not a pretty sight. He could spot pieces of the hanger half burnt buried in the remains, but most distressingly what more he found in the gray was his newly washed cloths.

Flauvic let out a war like shriek of utter exasperation and despair, frightening a flock of birds that had rested in a nearby tree to flight.

The fugitive gazed above, wondering just how much punishment he deserved.

In reply, said sky, which had grown so tired of Flauvic's racket, decided to drown him out with its own downpour.

And as Flauvic glared at the heavens, gritting his teeth, he heard the pounding of the rain and his blood.


End file.
